I Own the Dawn

by M. L. Buchman

  You had to want it so bad it became an obsession. And you had to be way smarter than the average bear. Anyone at this level packed an extra language or three, survival training, and a lot of other useful knowledge. Kee could fix and fire anything from an M9 Baretta to a Hellfire missile. That was her specialty, things that go bang. But she could also take apart most of a helicopter and might figure out how to get it back in the air despite not having all the replacement parts. If you were down and no medics were around, she could get you stabilized so you survived until medevac. And while comm wasn’t her specialty, she could get in touch if she had to with whatever kind of radio wasn’t shot up, including Morse code with an infrared beacon.

  Now, sitting with the major’s crew, she sat with the best, the smartest. The Professor wasn’t a weakling any more than Crazy Tim was a slacker. And she’d earned the right to sit at this table. Be damned if she cared that she didn’t have a cutesy home with a goddamn picket fence somewhere, or a hot car and a herd of horses waiting for her. No neat family that—

  “Smith.”

  “Yes, Major?”

  Beale held her gaze steady, as if she could read where Kee’s thoughts had gone. Somewhere hard and cold where she stood alone. To a place she thought she’d left behind, but clearly hadn’t.

  “It will take Chief Medic Mackenzie about a week to draw up special papers for Dilya. We can’t get her cleared as a US citizen without full adoption, but we can get her a friendly foreigner pass. She’d be able to travel, but the paperwork requires a single sponsor willing to be completely responsible for all actions of the minor in question. Are you—”

  “Yes, ma’am!” Kee didn’t have to think. Didn’t need the question to know the answer. “One hundred percent!” The major barely nodded, then dipped her spoon back into her dinner.

  Dilya reached up a tentative hand to the major’s white-blonde hair. First, she felt a strand, playing with it a moment, testing the texture. Blonde hair, especially such a light blonde, must be a mystery to the girl. Then she stroked a hand down the major’s hair exactly as the major had done with her.

  But her eyes were watching Kee. A look of absolute trust Kee knew she didn’t deserve, or want.

  15

  “Roger, Heavy 1. Adder 4 coming in.”

  Kee braced herself. Anticipating what Major Beale was about to do didn’t prepare her body for the sudden shift. In moments, Kee faced straight down, the helicopter on its side to get maximum turning speed. The g-forces rushed the blood toward her feet, though she hung facedown in her harness. Her gut also told her it would be her side of the helo that lined up with trouble.

  They passed over the massive twin-rotor Chinook helicopter hovering with its tail ramp dipped into the river. A double fireteam of Delta operators were launching a pair of Zodiac inflatable boats off the back ramp five miles above Naopari. The baddies dug in there would never expect a water assault, not in a mile-high desert. A recon team had reported the river navigable, if you were insane. Well below a D-boy’s threshold of worry.

  The Chinook was taking sporadic fire that normally would have been handled by the ramp gunner, but he wasn’t in position because the boats were launching. And he’d make too much noise anyway with his big M240. Also, whoever was potshotting remained well hidden.

  “Remember, quiet.” Beale’s voice sounded over the intercom. Without the element of surprise, the D-boys would never be able to slip into Naopari, waterborne or otherwise.

  The Professor would be doing his best to jam every frequency except the one they were using to stop any local spotters from reporting in. But that was dicey at best and couldn’t be depended on for long. And a blast from the Minigun would make a concussive buzz-saw burst that would echo the five miles down the narrow, twisting valley. The deluge of supersonic rounds announcing loud and clear that death was coming. Far louder than the rotor noise from the helicopters, it would unmask their presence more effectively than any called-in field report.

  But where a Minigun would be noticed, a few well-placed rounds would blend in with the general shooting already in progress among the steep hills. A squad from 10th Mountain, 3rd Company was running a rock-killing op a couple miles the other side of the town. No enemy there, they were just making noise to offer a distraction.

  Kee struggled against the g-force as she locked the Minigun in place and opened the rifle case she’d clipped to the bulkhead before her first flight on the bird. It was the first time she’d had a need. No one had commented and only John had tried to open it. She’d let him try by pretending not to notice. But, not knowing the combination, he’d given up.

  In under five seconds, by the time the major had stabilized the helo to a right-side-up hover, Kee had the Heckler and Koch MSG90-A1 out, the night-vision scope clipped onto the rail, and a ten-round magazine slapped in place with a round in the chamber. The same sniper rifle used by the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team—before she’d had it tweaked to her specifications.

  She wound the strap around her forearm and braced herself in the gunner’s chair. She turned on the night scope and began searching the hills.

  “Nice toy, Smith.” Mr. Big Bad sounded admiring. She didn’t need admiring. She needed a spotter. But she’d make do without.

  He’d unbuckled from his seat and snapped the three-meter tether of a monkey harness to his vest. He came to stare over her shoulder. She was about to smack him when he whispered over the headset, “Four o’clock high. Notch between two boulders with a ledge above. Don’t see how he got in there. Long way. Call it two hundred and fifty meters.”

  Right, he’d been the one on that side when they were going the other direction. Have to thank him later.

  She inspected the notch for a moment. Closer to three-fifty meters.

  “Take me right,” she whispered into her helmet’s microphone.

  Beale pulled up the nose until the helicopter was slipping backward. Sniper’s right, not pilot’s right. And Beale nailed it first try. Of course.

  “Got it. Hold.”

  “Wind twenty-four knots from down-valley.” Archie’s whisper had her adjusting her aim two full dots along the horizontal crosshair in the scope at this range. A big enough correction, she’d have missed without it. He knew what she’d needed and fed it to her right when she needed it.

  She had the weapon dialed in at three hundred meters. She lined up right along the crosshair, already set to compensate for the fall of the bullet due to gravity while traveling from her gun to the shooter. She raised half a dot in the scope’s view to get the extra fifty meters.

  The helo froze in place. She did her best to cushion out the vibration of the turbines and beating blades with her elbow on her knee. The hidden shooter raised his barrel to aim at them, exposing his head. The green image of the night-vision scope so perfect, she could see the darkness of his eye sockets in the outline of his face. She released her held breath slowly.

  Then, in that quiet moment between one heartbeat and the next, Kee pulled the trigger.

  Not much muzzle bang or flash with the suppressor. Four-tenths of a second later, the round went through the exact centerline of his forehead, perhaps an inch lower than she’d intended. Three hundred and seventy-five meters from a hovering helicopter—she’d take it. The face disappeared. Another face popped up in the hole. She raised the crosshair to the dot, waited for her heartbeat, and dead-centered that one. Then she waited fifteen long seconds, counting her heartbeats, one per second. No one else appeared.

  “Two down. All quiet.”

  “Roger.” Was all Major Beale said before moving off. Kee finally understood, finally knew how good the major was, every inch of rank earned the hard way. First woman in SOAR. She’d probably had it ten times harder than Kee, but she’d be so goddamn good they couldn’t keep her out. That “Roger” from Major Emily Beale rated as perhaps the highest praise Kee’d ever received.

  John gripped her hard on the shoulder and shook her as easily as a leaf for a moment. Sh
e slapped his hand hard in thanks.

  Damn straight she deserved to be aboard. And it was a privilege, too.

  16

  Kee spotted Dilyana waiting for their helo as they set down. The girl stood back as the ordnance and fuel teams did their thing. Waited while the four of them reset the helicopter to flight ready. They probably wouldn’t be flying again before leave, but that didn’t mean they left the bird sloppy. Helmets on seats, night vision plugged in for recharging, harnesses flipped back for quick entry.

  Kee sat on the helo’s deck in the open cargo door and patted the place beside her. Dilyana scampered forward and sat. Both of them with legs short enough that they could swing easily above the sand. After a quick hug, Kee made ready to disassemble and clean the H&K sniper rifle.

  Major Beale stopped by for a moment, ruffled Dilya’s hair. Dilya popped up to her feet on the cargo deck, making her eye to eye with the tall Major. She reached out to ruffle the major’s hair before giggling and dropping back down to her butt. Beale shook her head like a wild animal, then, with a practiced flick, all her hair fell into place as if she’d primped for an hour.

  Dilya did the same thing and ended up lost behind a curtain of dark curls. The major slid surprisingly gentle fingers into the fray and spread the girl’s hair open, then holding Dilya’s cheeks, kissed her on top of the head.

  “Were we ever so beautiful?”

  Kee had come to terms with being short and built. But if she’d ever in her own secret thoughts wished for one thing, it was to look like Emily Beale. And to have that perfect confidence.

  “No, ma’am. Nowhere close.”

  The major nodded to the rifle. “Never shot one of those.”

  “I’d be glad to show you, ma’am.”

  “Another time.” For half a moment Kee found herself wishing to have her own hair patted and a kiss placed atop her head for safekeeping. And the major was gone into the predawn dark. No “job well done.” No “where did you learn…” She’d complimented Kee exactly as a top commander would, by not commenting.

  The red vest of an ordnance dude stopped in front of them.

  “I could do that for you.”

  Kiss her atop the head? She’d lost her mind. Clearly.

  A red. Offering to clean her rifle.

  Get your brain together, Kee. Her wore shorts and Army boots, there was no need around here for the full flame-retardant suits he’d have worn on an aircraft carrier. Though the purple-clad fuelies, grapes, still suited up in full gear.

  She looked at him, trying to decide if he was being a helpful red or only wanted to get his hands on such a cool toy as her H&K. She’d bet more on the latter, but no one touched her sniper rifle. The rifle had cost three months’ pay, the night scope a fourth, and the custom work most of another. The Army had offered her an M24 SWS, Sniper Weapon System, which was nice enough in its own way, but to her eye the Heckler & Koch shone like a star in comparison.

  “No thanks, I got it.” She started breaking it down.

  He looked disappointed. “Need any rounds?”

  She could reach over to the Minigun and peel off two rounds without standing up, but he looked so cute and helpful. She held up two fingers and the guy was gone at a run to his stock truck. In moments he was back with two rounds. She’d nearly clicked them in the magazine before she noticed, M118LRs.

  She looked up again and nodded her thanks. This was one of the moments she loved the Army. She’d always assumed she’d be forced to resupply with standard rounds now that she was in the field. But this red had handed her the long-range specials designed specifically for sniper rifles. It made a big difference past five hundred meters. With nine percent more power, they made a thousand meters at least possible, if not dead-on. Near enough two-thirds of a mile. Hope she’d never need to depend on pulling that off. For that kind of work you needed the Barrett .50-cal.

  “Thanks, but I still clean my own weapon.”

  He laughed. “Figured you would. You ever need more, let me know.”

  She nodded and he was gone leaving no name behind.

  Dilyana ran her finger down the gun’s barrel that The Kee had taken off the rifle and then set down between them. It was cold, colder than a high mountain stream. It was so smooth that it felt liquid but her finger wasn’t wet when she took it away. The Kee took a cloth and began working on the trigger and handle.

  “The Kee qilmoq dead?”

  The Kee set the parts in her lap and fished out the phrase book. Dilya tried not to sigh while she waited. The Kee always stopped and took the time. Dilya knew from experience how few grown-ups cared what a child had to say. She had tried studying the book, but the words were hard and the writing strange.

  Her father had insisted that his daughter learn to read and write. Her mother hadn’t been happy, and both of her parents had made her promise to hide her knowledge. When they had lived in villages, they had practiced in the dark. She and her father whispering together, his face a bare outline in the starlight, as they traced letters upon each other’s palms until she knew each one as a friend. During the day her father treated her as all fathers treated all female children, without notice. But night was their special time. Her heart came alive in the dark.

  The Kee made a sound that Dilya knew she made when she was unhappy. She held the small book open in her hands. Dilya looked at the page and read: Qilmoq—to make. “Makee.”

  “Make.”

  “The Kee make dead?” Dilya tapped the rifle again to make sure she was being clear.

  Another deep sigh, then, “Yes.”

  “Ha.” She was tired of not hearing her own language.

  The Kee nodded. “Ha. Kee qilmoq dead.”

  She said it like a name. Maybe she was Kee and not The Kee. But it wasn’t right to call her that, not an elder. She would use it as a title. That felt better.

  The Kee’s hands began to reach and pluck at the air, like she did when she was seeking words. Trying to catch them before they escaped.

  But Dilya had questions. Questions she didn’t want turned aside so she spoke quickly.

  “The Kee qilmoq mother father dead?” It wasn’t quite right. She’d seen the white man who had shot her parents as she had huddled beside them. Her real question, did that man and The Kee work together? But it was the best she could do until she learned more language.

  She watched The Kee’s eyes. Eyes the same color as her own. Her mother had taught her that truth lay in the eyes.

  Kee looked as if she’d been slapped. Her narrow eyes now so wide, Dilya leaned away. Kee grabbed the edge of the helicopter’s floor on either side of her own knees and squeezed until her knuckles turned white. She opened her mouth and closed it again. Finally shaking her head once, hard enough to hurt. “No!”

  She saw the truth as Kee stared at the ground past her toes. Her weapon forgotten in pieces on the floor of the helicopter.

  The Kee flinched as Dilya pulled the phrase book from Kee’s pocket. She had to make sure she asked her next question right. She’d gotten faster at looking for the words. It didn’t take her long to find what she wanted.

  “Kishi.” She pointed to make sure Kee understood.

  “People?”

  Not how she would have guessed, pee-op-l-ee, but the sounds were there.

  “People make Dilya mother and father dead.”

  “Ha.”

  “Not The Kee.”

  Again the headshake. “Not The Kee.”

  “The Kee make people dead. People who make mother father dead? Please?”

  The Kee swung to face her. She bit her lip, but Dilya watched the eyes. They changed as she watched. First they were far away, “watching ghosts” her mother called it. Then slowly the eyes narrowed, grew darker. The mouth narrowed. Firmer. Stronger.

  She nodded once, “Ha!”

  Dilyana crawled into her lap. Wanted to be there. She liked this Kee. Trusted she would kill her parents’ killers. She’d seen that The Kee didn’t lie.
/>   Gently at first, The Kee held her. Then tighter and tighter until Dilya could feel herself folding up into a smaller person. These hugs had scared her at first, thinking The Kee would hurt her. Now they made her feel safe.

  Dilyana managed to peek into the book as The Kee held her. Held her so tight that she believed for a moment The Kee might actually find her parents’ killers. Then she could do what she had promised. There was the word she needed…

  “Good.”

  Archie had stood riveted through the whole thing. He’d stood outside the other cargo door and watched them through the bay of the Black Hawk.

  Seen the major be so tender, though it proved difficult to equate the gentle woman with the ball-buster pilot he thought he knew so well.

  He had heard the heartbreaking question, seen it slam into Kee. And the final benediction from a child, “Good.” The impossible blessing to go forth and kill.

  He had done enough shooting to know that snipers were different. Thought differently. Felt differently. Infantry shot toward their attackers. If they hit them, a lot of luck or a lot of bullets had gone by. When a pilot took them out, when he’d gunned down that mortar crew, not that Kee had left him much to kill, they were ciphers: bad guys.

  A sniper fought personally. The finger of death. Choosing who died next and then looking them in the face before and after taking them down. That Kee could be so strong was beyond imagining, he knew he couldn’t do the same.

  For Kee, if there were any way she could find the killers, and he and she knew there wasn’t a chance, it would be extremely personal. And he’d bet on Kee not hesitating for a single second.

  Kee held the girl still. Kissed her atop the head and kept whispering, “I’ll try. I promise.”

  He could watch no longer. He stepped onto the helicopter. If Kee noticed the slight shift on the shock absorbers, she didn’t indicate it. Kneeling behind her, he could see Dilya’s head tucked against Kee’s shoulder, disassembled bits of a ten-thousand-dollar rifle set aside and forgotten.